


Evanstan Week 2021

by luninosity



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: (kind of), 1-, 2-, 3-, 4-, 5-, 6-, 7-, Alternate Universe - Space, Anniversary, Breakfast in Bed, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Evanstan Week 2021, Falling In Love, Ficlet Collection, Filming, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, International Talk Like A Pirate Day, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Rating May Change, Rehearsals, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29316753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: All my Evanstan Week little fics! Some of them might be connected - not necessarily so, but they might be - so I figured having them all in one place would be easiest.Prompt 1 - Dodger! Domestic cozy naptimes.Prompt 2 - kisses! Kisses, cuddles, and a proposed new project, together...Prompt 3 - on set! Love confessions, and kisses.Prompt 4 - first times! It's Chris's first time kissing a guy. And kissing Sebastian is wonderful.Prompt 5 - alternate universe! Space captain Sebastian and diplomat Chris.Prompt 6 - fluff! Breakfast in bed, and an anniversary. Technically the follow-up to prompt #2, while they're filming in Italy.Prompt 7 - holiday! A piratical holiday, and a proposal, of sorts.
Relationships: Chris Evans/Sebastian Stan
Comments: 124
Kudos: 181





	1. dodger

Chris finishes pouring Sebastian’s coffee, pauses to watch as color-changing constellations become visible across the mug given the newfound heat, and grins at stars for a second. He’d bought Seb this mug, a couple months ago, just because he’d seen it and wanted to. Seb adores it.

Sebastian’s happy. Here. With him. Chris knows that right down to the marrow of his bones, and it lights him up inside.

He’s happy too. Fuck, he’s happy. Right here in their kitchen, on an afternoon full of bracing chilly winter air and grey drizzle from damp skies. More than he’d ever imagined he could be.

He’s always wanted a family, a partner, love. He’d said so, laughing, in interviews, even long before meeting Sebastian Stan. He’d always pictured the kind of life, domestic and cozy and romantic, where he could get up early and make the love of his life breakfast in bed, or take someone stargazing, or go for a walk in the woods with a big friendly dog or two bouncing alongside.

He’s got all that. He’s got all that and more. Just now he’s making coffee—and tea for himself—because Sebastian loves coffee in the same way kittens love sunbeams, and Chris loves seeing those familiar sweet opal-ocean eyes get all warm and pleased.

That always makes him feel warm too. Right down in his soul, where joy lives.

He knows Sebastian doesn’t always like gloomy days, darker sunless days. Seb likes rain and storms, because they’re full of motion; Seb likes sunlight and tempting horizons and even whipping wind, a world that’s quick and alive. But the flat dull leaden weather, day after day, gets hard. Restless. Scratchy, under Seb’s skin.

Right now Chris thinks they’ve got it handled, though. He’s loved Sebastian for years, and he’s learned a few tricks. New books help. So does good sex. And warmth and coziness, feeling soothed and calmed and settled into place.

He grins at the mug again. He’s left Dodger out in the living room with Seb, being good company and a good anchor. He loves that Sebastian loves his dog, and Dodger loves Seb right back. They got along right from the start: playtime, tummy rubs, laughter, walks together. Sebastian stays with Dodger when Chris has to fulfill some obligations, when Seb’s not busy doing the same; Chris had given him keys to the house early on, before it became their house and not just Chris’s, though that hadn’t taken long either. Sebastian feels right here. Part of this home.

Chris had come in once after a shower, tired from a long plane flight and a weary drive amid sputtering cloudbursts, and had caught Sebastian flopped down on the floor by the fire, having an earnest conversation with Dodger, nose to nose: _you know I love him,_ Seb had been saying. _You know how much he means to me. So we’re gonna take care of him, okay? You and me. We got this._

Chris, worn thin by hours on a plane and interview anxiety and the tension of driving in rain, had felt the tears well up. He’d stood there in the doorway and put a hand over his mouth, afraid to make a sound; both Seb and Dodger had looked up, and smiled at him.

Thinking of that, he smiles now; he turns back toward the living room, the sofa, his family and his heart.

He takes a step or two that way; and then he has to stop, because the sight’s so wonderful, so piercing, that he forgets he’s holding mugs of hot beverages and starts to press a hand to his heart.

He catches the motion. But his hand quivers to do it anyway: to feel the emotion, to flatten his palm over the wild thump and leap and bonfire glow inside his chest.

Sebastian’s fallen asleep, settled right where Chris left him moments ago. His book—that new history of women in the space program that Chris’d given him that morning—has fallen onto his chest. His hair’s fluffed up, dark against the blue-striped couch-pillow; his mouth’s a little open. Firelight traces his cheekbones, his chin.

He’s wearing one of Chris’s long-sleeved shirts and his own sweatpants and striped fuzzy socks, and he’s tucked up in the giant cream-colored knit blanket that Chris had put around him, and he’s got a second blanket in the form of Dodger, who’s draped across him and snuggled under one of Seb’s arms, which has obviously been good for cuddling.

Dodger lifts his head when Chris takes another small step. His ears perk up, but he doesn’t move. His expression says: _I know where I’m needed, I’m keeping him safe and warm and pinned under a nice heavy dog-weight, he’s good at snuggling puppies, and I’m taking excellent care of him for you._

You are, Chris wants to say. Oh, you are. Oh fuck I love you both—

He’s afraid if he tries to talk he’ll either start bawling or wake Seb. So he just stands there helplessly gazing at the loves of his life, while his heart cracks and spills over with light, incandescent and shattering and blinding. He’s pretty sure he can’t die from love, but at the moment he just might anyway, because the sight lances right through him and opens him up, pouring out clear profound aching protectiveness and adoration and desire and rightness in rays of crystal.

When he remembers to breathe he tastes the scents of his own tea and Sebastian’s coffee: herbal, nutty, full of steam. His hands are warm. The fire crackles and pounces on greyness and shoos it all away: nothing but light and heat left here in this room.

Sebastian stirs slightly but doesn’t quite wake. His fingers shift in Dodger’s fur, then relax. Dodger sets his head back down atop Seb’s chest, contentedly.

Chris breathes out, blinks rapidly—his vision’s kind of waterlogged—and crosses over to them, as quietly as possible.

He doesn’t think he’s made a noise, sitting down and putting mugs down, but Seb yawns and stirs again, eyelashes lifting: half-awake and drowsy. He finds Chris to look at immediately, and smiles: sleepy, unguarded, beautiful. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” Chris tugs Seb’s feet into his own lap, rubbing one gently. With those fuzzy socks, they’re warm; with a Dodger-blanket, Sebastian must be completely warm and weighed down, securely held, all over. “Go back to sleep.”

“No,” Seb protests lazily. “Coffee. You. Dodger. Nice.” Dodger lets out a happy puppy-huff at the sound of his name, and also at Seb’s hand resuming scratching duties behind his ears.

“Don’t worry,” Chris tells them both, one hand now kneading Seb’s calf and the other getting back to puppy-petting duties himself, right where they all should be, “I’ll heat your coffee up anytime it gets cold.”


	2. kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses, promises, and a scene to rehearse...

“So,” Chris says, a little—not nervous, not exactly, he wouldn’t say nervous. He just…really, really needs to know what Sebastian thinks. “What’d you think?”

Sebastian eyes the script he’s just finished reading. Then looks up, at Chris. And raises both eyebrows. Even sprawled across Chris and their sofa, sweatpant-clad and half in Chris’s lap, he can do that to devastating effect. Sebastian’s got such an expressive face, Chris thinks once again: mobile, clever, speaking without words. Sebastian’s worth looking at forever. Gazing upon. Adoring.

He’s getting distracted. And Seb hasn’t actually said anything yet.

The sunshine’s pale and bright, tracing the floor. Sebastian’s hair’s dried in improbable waves from their earlier shower, after their earlier bedroom very-good-morning fun which’d required said shower; he’s run a hand through it a couple of times, reading.

Chris, who’s read this one already—Sebastian had been doing a photo shoot, antique-library inspired because someone’d heard he likes books and Shakespeare and creative writing, when the scripts’d arrived yesterday—holds his breath. Waits.

Seb grins at him. “Okay. Yeah. I’m in. Let’s do it.”

“…really?”

“Really.”

“You don’t think it’ll be…kinda hard to do? For us, I mean.”

Sebastian gives him those wryly amused eyebrows again. “Yeah, Chris, I think it’ll be…constantly hard. Always is, around you.”

“Brat.” Chris, grinning, reaches to tap Seb’s nose because it’s there and adorable; Sebastian tries to bite his hand because Sebastian’s ridiculous and perfect, and then kisses his hand because Sebastian’s wonderful and genuinely sweet at heart under the wide-eyed mischief.

Chris says, “Come on, seriously, what’d you think?” and mentally crosses his fingers. He knows he wants to; he’s hoping Seb does too, but he knows it might be difficult, as far as blurring real life and acting roles.

“I _am_ being serious,” Seb retorts, “come here and I’ll show you how fucking serious I am,” and leans up and gets a hand on the back of Chris’s neck and tugs Chris’s head down, and the kiss is smoldering, sizzling, delicious: Sebastian’s tongue licking into Chris’s mouth, Sebastian biting at Chris’s lip, Sebastian moving under him and pulling him closer, knowing exactly what Chris likes, the way Chris loves the feel and the taste of Seb wanting him, teasing every roaring fierce leap of desire out of Chris’s body and heart.

The script’s getting crushed between them. Crumpled pages poke at Chris’s chest. Breathless, he draws back for a second; he’s shifted to gather Seb more underneath him, between his legs. His body throbs with the joy of it: this man, the man he loves, lying all happy and pleased and entangled with him across the sofa.

He says, ignoring the pages, hand playing with Seb’s hair, “You really are serious.”

“I want to kiss you,” Sebastian says, “on camera. I want to be your romantic-comedy love interest. I want to be the sexy man you fall for in Italy on your writer’s vacation to find your inspiration again. I want us to tell a story with a happy ending. I want this, Chris.”

His eyes say even more: complete certainty, fearlessness, no hesitation about taking on a gay rom-com with Chris at his side. It’s important—representation matters—and it’ll be them, together; that’s important too, Sebastian’s gaze proclaims, because Sebastian believes in love and believes in Chris, and Seb’s sure of this and them in a way that leaves Chris in awe, every damn day.

Seb adds, “I mean, if you do,” and that’s a hint of—not doubt about their love, not these days, but self-doubt: Seb’s almost visibly wondering whether Chris would rather not do this with him, would rather not share this, would prefer not to mix their real love and some fictional cinematic passion.

Whether Chris would prefer a different partner for a big important LGBTQ milestone movie. Whether Chris has any doubts about Seb’s ability to handle this role. Whether Chris’s earlier question had been about saying no, rather than yes.

And that’s not true and that’s not right and Chris can’t bear it. So he tangles his hands in Sebastian’s hair and takes Seb’s mouth in one more kiss, deep and long and drawn-out, possessive and pleading, claiming and apologizing: Seb’s his and he’s Seb’s and of course they can fucking do anything. Side by side. Each other’s anchor and banner and heart-beacon. No doubts admitted, not when they want the same things, together.

Sebastian’s all pink and pretty and giddy when Chris releases him: lips thoroughly kissed, color in his cheeks, happiness in the crinkles around his eyes. “What was that for?”

“Practice,” Chris tells him.

Seb laughs. “Thought we were already pretty good at that one.” He even shifts his hips, rocking his body against Chris’s: half-hard, arousal getting more so, definitely into being pinned down and kissed some more. Which is absolutely going to have to happen, right now, but first—

“ _Practice_ ,” Chris reinforces. “For kissing you a lot more. On camera. In _our_ film.”

Sebastian’s eyes light up. “I get to seduce you in a Roman villa?”

“And on a private beach. And on a plane. _And_ in a vineyard. Might have to practice some of those scenes, too.”

Sebastian’s little lip-lick’s a shining pink flash of tantalization. He moves against Chris again, bright as a yes. “I think we’ve got wine. If you want to rehearse the part when you, y’know. Lick it off my stomach. And then the rest of me.”

“Yeah.” Chris leans down to nibble the corner of Seb’s mouth, to trail kisses down to his throat, to taste the line of Seb’s neck and bare soft skin, hearing Seb’s small pleased sigh. “Getting to lick you all over…yeah, we should _definitely_ make sure we’re experts at that.”


	3. on set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love confessions and first kisses, set during _The First Avenger._

Sebastian’s watching Chris. He often is, can’t seem to help the track of his gaze—can’t pull away from the magnet-tug that’s Chris Evans’ loud laugh and gesturing hands and philosopher’s eyes, and if he’s honest he doesn’t want to. Right now the low hazy grey lighting of the broken bar sits on Chris’s shoulders and turns him into a grieving supersoldier: a man hollowed out by loss, left with a gaping hole right through his chest.

Chris is so good. So brilliant at emotion, at getting character. So thoughtful and so generous with his feelings, the kind of bravery that holds nothing back. He _is_ Steve Rogers, through and through: a hero, shining blue and gold.

Sebastian’s not that brave. Not that brilliant. Good at angst and pain, or dry humor, or intensity, maybe; but he’s in character for it. He does love people and stories, and he thinks he’s funny, sometimes, and he thinks he might want to be a writer, sometimes, and he can shove an entire pizza slice in his mouth when he’s comfortable around friends, but.

It takes him a while. Exhaling. Stepping out. Speaking up. He wouldn’t say he’s shy, because he isn’t, not once he knows people. He’s just…not Chris Evans, who wears joys and vulnerabilities openly, with pride, unafraid.

Sebastian looks at Chris, and aches with emotion, and says nothing, every day and every minute on this film so far.

He’s technically done for the day, though he’s not at all done on this film; he’s spent the morning running around with Howling Commandos and being a young and terrified sergeant thrown into war. They’d filmed Bucky’s fall from the train the day before; Sebastian had honestly loved it. The emotion’d been easy: love and loyalty, throwing himself in to fight alongside the other half of his heart, the moment of sheer shock, a small but gloriously physical drop onto thick mats. They’d let him do that one, because it wasn’t a long fall and they needed to see his face. He hoped it’d been good; everyone seemed pleased, at least.

He shifts weight, wishes he had a pillar or a wall to lean on. He watches Chris some more.

They’d caught the stunned disbelief on Chris’s—Steve’s—face at the fall, yesterday. Chris is so incredible at nuance, at blazing emotions, even in a few-seconds-long shot. Sebastian had said, after, “That felt really good, that last take?” and had meant, _I think you’re a genius, I think I want to work right next to you forever, I think I love you._

Chris had gotten kind of pink-cheeked because Chris is too damn self-deprecating, and had said, “Oh—um, thanks, man, you too, I mean it felt good to me too, I mean we’re fuckin’ awesome, obviously,” and had nudged Sebastian’s shoulder, somewhere between a punch and a quick resting of a hand. “Craft services? They got blueberry bagels, someone said.”

Chris, bagel-focused, clearly had not heard Sebastian’s internal monologue. And if he had, wouldn’t reciprocate.

Which is fine, of course. Chris never needs to know, and Sebastian’s ridiculous emotions will calm the hell down and go away. Any day now. Sometime. Soon.

But he’s watching Chris, and Chris is pretending to try to get drunk, pain visibly shredding him inside; Chris is Steve and Steve can’t believe it and has to believe it and wants to scream, to shout, to punch a hole through the world—

The scene’s fantastic, of course.

They get it in maybe three takes, rapid-fire, Chris laying out his heart for the watchers. His voice cracks; it’s getting rougher, the third time.

They do it a couple times more for different close-ups. Sebastian takes a step closer, between takes. His boots—he’s changed; they’re his own boots—are louder than he’d recalled that morning; Chris looks over at the sound.

And maybe Chris looks surprised, or relieved, or grateful, for a split second; maybe it’s all in Sebastian’s head, though, because the next second they’re right back into it, capturing Steve’s heartbreak.

It’s a wrap for the scene, eventually. And Chris is done for a few hours too, though he’ll need to stick around; he’s got some close-ups to do inside a mock airplane, being bounced around, for what’ll be the big final self-sacrifice. Sebastian loves the heroism and pain of it; he’s always loved good writing, and he’s got a good feeling about this script and about this universe, which he’s a tiny part of now.

Chris doesn’t get up right away. Just scrubs both hands over his face, shoulders slumped. Hayley Atwell’s gone off to talk to the director; Joe’s nodding, listening to her. Nobody’s checking on Chris.

And that’s wrong, that’s wrong and not good and _not right_ —Chris has just been hurting, the way that Chris hurts for the world, and Chris should never be hurting, not while Sebastian’s alive—

Sebastian’s legs move before his brain makes a conscious decision. He’s picking his way across artistic rubble and taking a few running steps and putting a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Hey.”

Chris actually jumps a little, which isn’t the best start. “Oh! Uh, hey, hi, did you, um…have a question? About Steve and Bucky, or somethin’?” The Boston comes out extra-strong; it does that when Chris is feeling a lot, or tipsy, or just exaggerating to make someone laugh.

“No,” Sebastian says. “Or, well, yeah, we might want to talk about some of those flashback sequences, so we’re on the same page with emotion and all, but.” He licks his lips, realizes he’s doing it—a nervous habit, one he’s had for years—and stops. He can taste chapstick on his tongue. “I just. Wanted to. I don’t know. Are you…I mean, that looked like a lot.”

“You…” Chris trails off. He’s looking at Sebastian’s face with astonishing intent; Sebastian would say even desperation, but that’d be ludicrous. Chris doesn’t have any reason to feel desperate about him.

He tries, “I know you, um, like tea? Not coffee? We could go grab, um, tea. If you want.”

“Tea,” Chris says, a little blankly. “But _you_ like coffee.”

Sebastian’s starting to get kind of worried, here. “I do, but you gave it up? We could maybe head back to your trailer, and you can, um, relax for a minute, and I can…try to make tea?”

Chris stares at him some more.

“Or not,” Sebastian throws in helplessly.

“Yes,” Chris says. “Yes, yeah, yes—you—fuck. Okay. Jesus, Chris, get it together,” and he even shakes his head like a puppy flinging off water, and Sebastian kind of wants to grin and also scratch his tummy.

Well. Maybe not scratch. He can think of better things to do with Chris’s stomach. Mostly involving his tongue.

And he should absolutely not be thinking of that when Chris needs his help. He sticks out a hand. “To the end of the line? Or at least your trailer.”

Chris looks at the hand, and then takes it, hauling himself up out of the chair. His fingers are large and strong and a little cold, and they squeeze Sebastian’s for just a little too long, as if wanting to hold on.

No. Must be Sebastian’s heart thinking that. Wanting what he can’t have.

He walks with Chris through behind-the-scenes set-ups and teardowns, props and people rushing to and fro, the corners of trailers and the shouts of movie-making going on. The sun’s warm, if light; the ground’s hard beneath his boots. He keeps stealing glances at Chris, who doesn’t seem too talkative. Sebastian’s poor overworked heart wants to take each sensation, each sight and taste and scent of this backstage moment, and fold them up safe deep inside.

Chris is letting him help. That feels like sunshine.

Chris’s trailer’s simple, unpretentious, unfussy; script copies and notes lie scattered around, and he’s got some weights, and some Disney-movie DVDs. Sebastian smiles, because that’s so very Chris: delight in the magic, always.

Chris, still in costume, sits down on his sofa. He doesn't quite meet Sebastian's eyes. “Thanks.”

“For what? How do I make tea with this?” He’s poking Chris’s electric kettle. He does sort of know how it works, in theory. His mother has an old-fashioned kettle; he’s got fancy coffee-making machinery; he should be able to combine all this knowledge. “Where _is_ your tea?”

“Seb,” Chris says. “I—hang on, does anyone actually call you Seb?”

“Um. Not really? You can. I don’t mind.” He doesn’t. Chris uses last names often, an affectionate Boston-bro shorthand for friendship; Sebastian’s somehow always been Sebastian or Seb, in Chris’s voice. He’s wondered why, though he’s thought maybe Chris just doesn’t feel that close to him. Not deserving of the bro-status.

“You don’t mind, or you don’t like it, and you’re being nice about it?”

“I don’t mind,” Sebastian says, too quickly. “I like it.”

“Sebastian,” Chris says.

“Really,” Sebastian says. “Either. Whatever.”

“Jesus,” Chris says, face back in his hands. “I’m sorry. I just…just tell me if I’m sayin’ something stupid, okay? Please.”

“But you’re not!” Sebastian comes back over to the couch. That damn magnet again. Tugging his bones. “You’re not, it’s fine, we’re good, Chris. I swear. Really.”

Chris doesn’t look up, so Sebastian drops to both knees, right there at Chris’s feet, and tries not to think of all the times he’s wanted to do exactly that. It’s easier _not_ to think of it, right now, because he’s genuinely concerned.

He peeks up at Chris’s face. “Hey. Kinda worried here. Not about you, I mean, about your kettle, it’s got all these buttons, it’s like a rocket ship, I’m afraid if I touch the wrong thing it’ll explode.”

Chris snorts, almost a laugh, and then does look up. His eyes go right to Sebastian’s, so close and so blue; and then all at once he’s moving, leaning forward, one hand reaching out and cradling Sebastian’s head, and then—

They’re kissing. Oh, god, they’re kissing, Sebastian on his knees in front of Chris and Chris bending down to claim him, hand in Sebastian’s hair—

Chris kisses like reprieve, like the release of storms, like the dive into a heated pool on a chilly day: wholehearted, devoted, anxious to lick and taste and plunge into every part of Sebastian’s mouth. Sebastian, who’s been kissed before, has in fact never been kissed before, because no other kiss has ever been a kiss, compared to this.

His knees dimly register the hardness of the trailer floor, and his neck’s at kind of an awkward angle, and Chris is still mostly in the Captain America suit. None of that matters. Nothing else matters at all, because Chris wants him and Sebastian’s whole self yearns for Chris, and Chris’s tongue and taste and tug at Sebastian’s hair are all white-hot gloriously perfect.

Chris pulls back almost as abruptly. They’re both breathless; Chris whispers, “Oh, fuck…” and takes his hand out of Sebastian’s hair, but then touches Sebastian’s cheek, cups his face, as if unable to stop touching. “I…fuck…I didn’t…I’m so fucking sorry, I just…”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why’re you sorry?” Sebastian tips his head into Chris’s hand. “I’m not.”

“You’re…not.”

“Chris,” Sebastian says, and then runs out of words. He hopes Chris can see it, can read it, in his eyes. On his face. “Yes.”

“Yeah?” Chris reaches out with the other hand too: framing Sebastian’s face now, tender and awestruck. “You mean that.”

“I mean it,” Sebastian says. “But—”

“Oh god,” Chris says, “I’ve fucked this up, haven’t I—”

“No! No, just…are you okay? I mean, from earlier.” Somewhere amid the kissing his hands’ve ended up on Chris’s thighs; apparently they just want to be there, and now rub along Chris’s legs, soothing and caressing and learning all at once. “I mean, I wanted to—”

“To help,” Chris groans. “You came over to help—because you’re the sweetest fucking person I know, god, you’re perfect, Seb, the nicest and the warmest and the _best_ —and I fucking, Jesus, practically _mauled_ you—”

Sebastian cuts _that_ anguished recrimination off by diving forward and getting his mouth back on Chris’s. After some in-depth affirmation, he breathes against Chris’s lips, “Don’t think you’re doing any mauling I don’t like.”

Chris’s eyebrows go up.

“Really,” Sebastian tells him.

“Huh,” Chris says. “Huh. Okay. You—okay.”

“No,” Sebastian says patiently. “Are _you_ okay?”

Chris stares at him, and then bursts out laughing. Mid-laughter, scoops Sebastian off the floor. Flops them both down across the sofa, holding on. “God, you’re incredible.”

“The best, you said.”

“And I mean it. You just make it all…feel better, kind of?” Chris strokes a hand down Sebastian’s back, over his t-shirt. “That’s what it was, earlier. Like…being Steve, losing Bucky, but that’s _you_ , and all at once I was thinking about losing you, and I just felt like…like someone’d dropped _me_ off a train, y’know? Like I’d never get up again.”

“I’m here.” Sebastian wriggles against him. They fit together: bodies pressed close, every piece of them learning each other. He’s half atop Chris, but with one of Chris’s legs tangled through his. “I’m here.”

“I know.” Chris rubs his back again. “And you were there, too. You were right there and I could look up and find you, and it was like I could remember how to breathe. And then you were here, asking about tea and looking at me like—and I just had to kiss you. I want to kiss you. Seb. Sebastian. God, I fuckin’ want—everything. I know it might get complicated, I know we’re in the middle of making a movie, but I can’t not want everything. Together. With you.”

“Well,” Sebastian says, “good to know,” and stretches to kiss Chris again. It’s that simple, if not easy: the future’ll change, but it does that anyway, sprawling out in all sorts of directions. And he thinks it’ll be a good direction, with Chris at his side. “Because I want everything with you too.”


	4. first times (a first kiss, at least)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris has never kissed a guy before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically this prompt was "first times," which my brain decided was...first time kissing a man?

Chris has not, in fact, kissed a man before.

Not seriously, at least. He’s kissed fellow actors, jokingly, goofing around; he’s kissed the occasional family member, especially as a kid. So there’s that.

He’s kissed a lot of women. It’s not, in theory, much different.

But this is Sebastian, and this is important; this is the most important kiss of Chris’s life, here and now.

He’s just tried to explain that he’s never done this before, and Seb had looked surprised, and then thrilled, smoky grey eyes all intrigued; Sebastian had said, “I’m seriously your first?” and Chris had blurted out, “I mean I’ve had guys—I mean I’ve done stuff, y’know—I mean I know I’m into guys too!” and Seb had stared at him for a second or two and asked, “What, exactly, does _stuff_ mean in this context?”

Chris had groaned. Flailed. Guys he’s had crushes on. Guys he’s sort of accidentally cuddled up with on his sofa, and maybe things felt really nice, in the pants sort of way. Guys who’ve offered to get him off, to blow him, usually at a party, maybe both of them not drunk but a little laid-back, loose, relaxed.

“Oh,” Sebastian had said, immediately after that. “Okay. Stuff. I mean, I went through the whole getting on my knees for hot and hopelessly straight guys phase, so I sort of get it, if you just want me to do that again—”

“That’s not what this is!” Chris pleads now, desperate. “That’s not what we’re doing! I just meant—it just, I don’t know, never came up! I mean kissing! Never came up! But I want to! I want to kiss you!”

Sebastian’s laughing by the end of this speech, not loudly but with those precious little crinkles around his eyes. “Relax, Chris. I believe you. You want me to know you’re seriously bisexual, and you seriously want to kiss me.”

“Yes? Please. Kiss me. Um. If you want to?”

Sebastian laughs again, soft and fond. “Jesus, Chris. I fucking love you.” And then he leans in, one hand catching Chris’s face to draw him in too.

Sebastian’s lips are soft, and his stubble’s lightly scratchy. He tastes like mint over coffee, because Sebastian’s considerate like that and also loves coffee; Chris had caught the scent of mint and sweetness when Seb had stepped inside his hotel room door.

They’d said they’d run lines. Rehearse. Practice.

They’d both known this was coming. They’ve been knowing it—in looks, touches, prickling tingling quivering awareness—for months, even years. Since that first-ever reading together. Inevitable. Always happening, always going to happen, always under the surface, already here.

Sebastian’s tongue slips across Chris’s lips, into Chris’s mouth. Chris wants to beg for more, wants to be explored and discovered by Seb. Sebastian’s more experienced, he knows, as far as kissing men, and Seb’s gently confident, curious and questing, learning Chris’s reactions. Chris wants to give him everything, and it’s a strange new world, familiar and not: it’s kissing, and it’s kissing Seb, who’s amazing and perfect, and yet the angles are different, the line of Seb’s jaw’s masculine and enticing, the chapstick he’s wearing is the same one Chris uses, healing and unscented.

Sebastian sucks a little at Chris’s lower lip, teases it with teeth, glances at Chris’s face. Winds a hand around the back of Chris’s neck, and presses himself closer against Chris all over, right there in the middle of the hotel room, where they’d taken steps to meet each other.

Chris groans. His body sizzles with sparks. He’s moving before he can think: one hand sliding along the firmness of Seb’s back, finding Seb’s ass, squeezing. Sebastian gasps, but whispers, “Yeah,” and heat simmers along Chris’s spine. Seb likes being gripped by him, fondled, caressed. Yeah. Yes. More.

He’s kissing Seb back now, discovering in turn. Something shifts, changes, stirs; it’s Chris’s tongue licking into Seb’s mouth now, venturing further, asserting control. Sebastian arches against him; Chris bites at his lip, the way Seb did to him. Sebastian moans softly.

“Oh,” Chris breathes. “Oh, you like that.”

“I…yeah.” Seb blinks at him, eyes all dark and wide and beautiful. “Yeah. You’re pretty good at this.”

“Never said I didn’t learn fast.” Chris nibbles at the corner of his mouth, this time; then kisses him more deeply, tongue plunging in, almost a thrust. Sebastian likes that too, from the way he moves against Chris; Chris grins, lets Seb feel the grin, thinks about what he’s liked and what he’s tried before, and what Seb seems to enjoy.

He trails kisses down to the underside of Seb’s jaw, marveling at the faint rasp of hair in contrast to soft skin. He finds Seb’s throat, and presses a kiss there: sucking, biting, more pressure as Seb moans and tips his head, giving Chris more access. Chris ends up steadying him slightly; Sebastian’s legs seem shaky.

Seb whispers, hands on Chris’s shoulders, “ _So_ fucking good at this.” He’s adorable: kiss-flushed, hair rumpled, lips pink. A pink mark decorates his throat, not badly; it’ll fade, Chris guesses.

He kind of doesn’t want it to. Or he does, but only so he can do it again.

“So,” Sebastian sums up, breathless, smiling, in Chris’s arms. “Good first kiss?”

“The best,” Chris says truthfully. “We should do it again. Hey, Seb.”

“Yes. So much yes. What?”

“You said it,” Chris explains, brain having caught up. “I forgot to. But I do. I love you.”

“I—” Sebastian’s mouth drops open. “I did say it—I just—it just came out, Chris, I do, of course I do, I mean it, but—don’t think you have to say it, just because I—”

“I love you,” Chris says. “Sebastian Stan. I love you.”

“Oh,” Sebastian says, or at least his lips do. The syllable looks like a kiss.

“I love you,” Chris tells him once more for good measure. “And I really want to kiss you again. A second best-ever kiss. _All_ the best-ever kisses. We should keep on having the best kisses, for, like, forever. I love kissing you.”

“I love you kissing me,” Sebastian starts, but doesn’t finish, because Chris’s mouth lands on his at the final word, and they’re tangled up in each other and laughter and kisses, the way Chris always wants to be.


	5. in space (alternate universe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which courier ship captain Sebastian Stan's transporting Federation diplomat Chris Evans home, after a successful peace negotiation...

Stars streak and flow and swirl along the swiftspace tunnel. They spin and flare and flood color through the viewing windows: white, red, golden, blue, against the dark joyous infinity of space. Chris Evans, as a Federated Planets diplomat and ambassador, has seen a lot of stars and a lot of space. The sheer delight of it all kicks him in the heart every time.

He gets to be here. On adventures. Flying through darkness and light and beauty. Visiting new worlds, helping people solve problems.

He wanders across the small upper observation lounge, weary and entranced.

The courier ship’s sleek and graceful, a silver-grey water-bird with the jeweled light of the universe pooling along her skin. From this angle Chris can see her side, the line of her hull, as well; the view’s maybe not as entirely unrestricted as it would be from the larger more forward deck below, but he likes the connection right here.

He gazes at the stars, and lets himself relax a fraction: sleeves shoved up, collar undone, hands in his pockets. Negotiations at his back. Peace achieved. Success.

Maybe he grins at the stars, and maybe they grin back, but that’s okay: nobody else is here to witness their casual shared relief and giddiness. It’s relatively late—the middle of the night, according to ship’s time, anyway—and the observation lounge is quiet, up here.

Except that’s not true. Because there’s a tiny chirp, pleasant and musical—and it’s not _Chris’s_ communicator—

He turns. The person who’d been settled into the large corner chair—not facing the door—bolts up hastily and silences the notification and says, “Apologies, Ambassador—” and Chris realizes all at once, a supernova to the gut, that that’s not just any person.

That’s Sebastian Stan, or more accurately _Captain_ Sebastian Stan.

In command of this beautiful graceful Federated Planets courier ship. Here to ferry Chris back to the capital planet after negotiations. And so damn beautiful himself that Chris, experienced diplomat that he is, had forgotten how to talk for a good five seconds upon first meeting.

Captain Stan’s got fluffy dark hair and bright eyes the color of morning mist over the geothermal lakes of Skystone. He’s nearly Chris’s height and nearly Chris’s age, human like Chris but raised on the colony world of Apa Sâmbetei; he’s young for a captain, though not so young that it’s wildly extraordinary, and he’s disarmingly sweet and enthusiastic and passionate in a heartfelt way, someone who talks about his ship and flying the stars as if he’ll never get tired of new missions and explorations, whether that’s as big as discovering a new nebula or as small as bringing a single diplomat back home for debriefing.

And Chris had fallen head over heels—hopelessly, ridiculously, he knows—the second Captain Stan had run down the ramp at the spaceport and said, “Welcome aboard, Ambassador!” with cheerful disregard for formal impersonal protocol but equally cheerful enthusiasm about inviting Chris on board his ship for the next week.

Chris’s heart’s always loved people who love the world. And Sebastian Stan so clearly does. So glorious, so vibrant.

Two days in, they haven’t spoken much. That first brief welcome. Dinner at the captain’s table yesterday, which is in fact the only table, because Sebastian’s crew only numbers seven and they’re all friends. A quick encounter outside the rec-holo room that morning, Chris having asked if he could reserve some workout time and Captain Stan apparently just leaving, having been doing…something…in a clinging dark blue gym shirt and grey sweatpants, just before. He’d been flushed and sweat-damp and glowing; he’d obviously not been expecting Chris to show up ten minutes early. Chris had blurted out, “Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t interrupting—I thought it’d take longer to get here—” and then had wanted to bite off his own tongue for implying Sebastian’s ship was too small or too simple or whatever the hell he’d just managed to babble.

“No, it’s fine, it’s all yours!” Sebastian’d said instantly. “I’m—I mean, we’re—I mean the _Calliope_ ’s at your disposal, Ambassador, of course—” He’d vanished into the lift Chris’d just exited, at that.

Right now Sebastian looks on the verge of vanishing again: swinging boots to the deck’s carpet, picking up his communicator and tablet, plainly on the brink of getting up. “I didn’t mean to disturb you—”

Chris says, “You were here first!” and holds up a hand, though he’s not even sure what the gesture’s supposed to mean. Stay? Wait? I’ll go? I’m sorry for barging in on your observation deck time? “And it’s your ship—I’ll just go, I just couldn’t sleep—”

Sebastian’s smile’s sudden and complicated: wry, understanding, gently concerned. He gets up, but tosses communicator and tablet back down onto his chair: not leaving, then. When he comes to stand at Chris’s side, his eyes are very soft and warm, clear smoky shimmery grey-blue opals.

He’s still mostly in uniform, though he’s unzipped the jacket and also pushed up both sleeves, and the navy-blue top and tight black undershirt and silver trim all frame his face and throat and body like an antique portrait-decoration. “That moment after a mission. And before the next one.”

“Yeah.” Chris exhales, tries to remember to gaze at stars and not Captain Stan. “Like jumping off the wind-cliffs on Selene. Like sky-diving, in free-fall, knowing you’ve done everything right, you should land fine, but that minute right _before_ you come down safe and sound, but there’s nothing left you can do about it now…But, look, I didn’t mean to interrupt you, I didn’t know anyone’d be here—”

“You aren’t interrupting.” Sebastian shrugs, one-shouldered; glances out at the view. “I love this spot too. I always have. And I love the stars in motion. We’re going somewhere, doing something. On our way to help someone. The way you just did.”

“I didn’t do all that much.” But he kind of likes the compliment, the glow it sparks in his bones. “Part of a whole delegation. We just got the factions in a room, got them to talk. They did the rest.”

“But you did that,” Sebastian points out. “You gave them the space, the encouragement, the opening to speak and to listen. What you did…that’ll help end the war on Tacitara, and _that’ll_ make life better for all their people. That’s important.”

“Yeah,” Chris says. “I mean…yeah. I know. It _is_ important. I just…”

“You want to do _more_ ,” Sebastian says. “You want to help even more. More people, more worlds. Get them all to talk to each other.”

“Well…yeah.” And those words, Sebastian’s words, disarm him. How can someone he’s barely met know him, see him, so well? From a moment alone with the stars, with the night?

Sebastian’s smile quirks. “And you’re here. For a whole week. Stuck in transit, with nothing to do.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Chris protests.

“I know.” Sebastian, looking Chris’s way, is outlined by star-streaks. They shine topaz and violet and sapphire in his hair, along his left cheekbone. “I get it.”

A flash of memory surfaces; the _Calliope_ , Chris recalls, had been one of the smaller ships bringing medical aid, and assisting in desperate evacuations, after the horrific planetary eruptions on Cronus. He hadn’t known her captain’s name at the time, or if he had he hadn’t remembered.

Sebastian would’ve been several years younger then, maybe right out of the Flight Academy. Maybe even a first assignment.

Those lapidary grey-blue eyes’ve seen a lot, behind sparkling youthful glee about space and courier missions. Probably as much, if not more, than Chris has in Federation negotiations.

He says, “I know you do,” and he means it. “Thanks.”

Sebastian now looks surprised. “For what?”

“Um…talking to me?”

“You said you couldn’t sleep.” Sebastian gives him a small head-tip: familiarity. “I get that sometimes too.”

Chris winces again. “I really didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“You didn’t, I said.” Sebastian sighs. “Trying to write. Not that it’s working. I’m glad I was here, though. If you wanted someone to talk to.”

“I’m glad you were here too.” He means that, also. “Writing?”

“Ah.” Sebastian makes a face: half-abashed, half-amused at his own letting that out, self-deprecating but not exactly shy. “Not anything really…I mean, maybe someday…I just like telling stories, sort of…places I’ve been, people I’ve met, kind of fictionalized, kind of travel writing…sort of memoir…I’ve published a couple pieces, on the holonet…nothing big, though, just in my spare time…”

Chris narrows his eyes at this dismissal. He’s a decent diplomat; he can tell when someone’s kicking sand over the truth. “Anything I’d know?”

“...not unless you read _The Next Horizon_ ’s creative contributor’s section on a dedicated basis?”

“Yeah, the thing is,” Chris says, “literally billions of people on billions of planets read _some_ version of _The Next Horizon_ , that’s pretty much the biggest place you _can_ contribute something, if you’re at all into literature and arts and writing,” and stares at Sebastian very hard.

“It’s only three short pieces so far—”

_“Three?!”_

Sebastian’s cheeks get pink under the rainbow wash of swiftspace star-field color; he does a small head-duck and nose-scrunch and says, “Sorry?” as if that’s something to feel guilty about, and eyes the _Calliope_ ’s hull out the viewport like he’s longing for a spontaneous spacewalk.

“Fuck,” Chris says, wholeheartedly impressed. “I mean…fuck. Wow.”

Sebastian gets over embarrassment enough to laugh. “Nice diplomatic language, Ambassador.”

“Chris,” Chris corrects. “Please.”

And Sebastian’s eyes get even happier, even more luminous and shining. “Then it’s Sebastian. Definitely.”

“Sebastian.”

That earns a tiny lip-lick, a shift of weight: suddenly the room and the stars and Chris’s skin prickle with awareness. Sebastian’s looking at him, at the sound of his own name on Chris’s lips; Chris has found him beautiful already, but abruptly it’s real and sharp and thrumming like a plucked wire: Chris and Sebastian, together under space-light.

“Chris,” Sebastian says.

“Yeah?” Chris shifts weight as well. Closer to him. Enough to reach out and touch. And neither of them draws away.

“I’m glad it was us,” Sebastian says. “Me. The closest available courier. For you.” His fingertips are near enough to brush Chris’s, in the next heartbeat.

Chris turns his hand. Lets the touch happen: lets his skin drink in the feel of Sebastian’s fingers, the way they’re warm and curious and unafraid, moving to meet his.

He thinks about starlight, and the week’s journey to Earth, and time to get to know Sebastian more, time to talk about words and stories and saving people. He thinks about debriefings, and some accumulated shore leave after that, before a next assignment.

He wonders whether Sebastian’s got any stored-up leave also; he wonders whether Sebastian likes the ocean, or wind-cliffs, or quiet retreats in a snowy cabin with space to write and some cozy hand-made non-replicator hot chocolate, the way Chris’s mother taught him. He wants to find out.

He says, under rushing flowing galactic kaleidoscope glow, with Sebastian’s fingers twining themselves into his, “I’m glad it was you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're about to have a very fun week. And yes, Sebastian also has some shore leave time. They can think of LOTS of ways to use it.
> 
> Also Sebastian volunteers to get Chris to his next assignment. And pick him up after. And...maybe always.


	6. fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast in bed, and an anniversary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically a continuation, or rather the "a few months later, now that they're filming" follow-up, for chapter two, when Chris and Seb agree to film that gay rom-com! But you don't really need to've read that one first.

Sebastian loves living with Chris. Sebastian loves filming with Chris. Sebastian loves rehearsing with Chris. Sebastian, in short, loves his entire life with Chris, not least because at the moment he’s got a day off, in Italy, with Chris.

They’re filming that luscious romantic comedy, full of heart and passion and emotion, Sebastian’s lonely wealthy vineyard owner falling for Chris’s wandering wayward author, under golden sun and blue skies, on shared picnics and villa getaways and lush lavish sex scenes on silken sheets. He and Chris have held hands on camera and off, have kissed on camera and off, have roamed rolling hills and tumbled around in long dry grass together.

He’s lounging in bed, in their small and historic but luxuriously renovated hotel room. They’d slept in; Chris had told him to stay in bed, had kissed him, had pulled on clothes and gone out with a mysterious, “It’s a surprise.” Sebastian had burrowed right back down under bountiful blankets and napped on and off. He likes being warm and cozy, though he does want to get up and explore this tempting fourteenth-century town. So many stories to see.

Speaking of stories, they’ve got a night shoot to get, later. Himself and Chris, as Alex and Ryan, going out to dinner.

It’s actually a complicated scene: Alex wants to give Ryan everything, his home and his wealth and his heart, but he’s not very good at words, more at gestures, and he’s been a private person for so long that a love confession’s difficult; Ryan’s finally been able to write again, and he’s writing about Italy, the words’re flowing, his agent’s talking about publicity and book tours and getting him to come home for meetings with people who suddenly want to adapt his previous novel, and suddenly he’s saying words about _leaving_ and also about _writing about them_ —

They’ll manage dinner, in public, but they’ll fight like hell, back at the villa. And reconcile, of course, in the best romance tradition, later on.

Sebastian’s not worried. He and Chris have practiced those lines, that moment. He’s not Alex and Chris isn’t Ryan, and they’re secure. They know each other inside and out, and that means they’re free to plunge headlong into all the emotions on set. It’ll be intense and powerful and liberating and _fun_.

The door swings open in an arch of carved wood. Chris appears, in sweatpants and a soft red shirt, with fluffy morning hair; Chris plus a tray of food appears, in fact, all beautifully arranged, coffee and eggs and avocado and toast and blueberry jam, which Chris has somehow found here in Italy, and there’s even a small rose in a vase. Red, and sweet.

Sebastian stares at it. Then looks up at Chris. Then points out, “I was already planning on sex with you, y’know, kind of a sure thing here, you don’t have to seduce me.”

“I know you’re _my_ sure thing,” Chris says, coming over and putting the tray on Sebastian’s lap. “I also know you don’t know what day it is.”

“Um…Wednesday? Is Wednesday some sort of breakfast in bed day? I feel like I should know about these traditions.” He also feels kind of warm and fuzzy and helplessly soft inside. Chris has brought him breakfast in bed, and a flower, and Sebastian’s never known his whole entire heart could burst into sparkly metaphorical songs about roses, but it’s done that now.

“It is Wednesday,” Chris agrees, sitting back down with him. “It’s also our anniversary.”

“It is not!” Sebastian knows when their anniversaries are. All of them: first kiss, first date, first time falling into bed. First public announcement and acknowledgement: them together, facing the world. Even before that, their first _I love you_.

He loves all those anniversaries. Every one.

“It’s the first day I looked at you,” Chris says, “all those years ago, that first Captain America set, and you were laughing—you were so quiet, back then, at least at first—”

Sebastian snorts. “You just didn’t know me yet.”

“I said something stupid,” Chris says, “some joke, I don’t even remember, I was nervous and trying to not be nervous, y’know? And I _know_ it wasn’t that funny, but you laughed like it was the best line you’d ever heard, and then you smiled at me. And I just—I didn’t even know what it was, back then, but it just hit me, like, right in the gut. The way you laughed just because you were happy and then you smiled at me like you really wanted me to know I’d made you happy, and your eyes were so—your whole face was so—and I thought, god, I could do this forever, y’know? I could do this forever, with him. Whatever that meant.”

“Jesus,” Sebastian says, a little weakly because he’s fighting back treacherous spilling-over emotions. “You know, if you’d said so then, we could’ve been doing this much sooner…”

“So I’m kinda slow, sometimes,” Chris agrees. “But I figured it out in the end. So…happy anniversary? Happy Wednesday. Breakfast for Sebastian in bed day. _Sex_ with Sebastian in bed after breakfast day.”

“I love you,” Sebastian says, “Chris, I love you, you fucking hopeless romantic, kiss me right this fucking second,” and he’s trying not to laugh or cry or both, as Chris leans in with one hand steadying the breakfast tray, exaggerated caution alongside the exhilarating swoop of Chris’s mouth and the heat of Chris’s tongue.

He reaches up to pull Chris closer, tasting love and the scents of coffee and breakfast and roses. He breathes, as Chris pauses to nuzzle and nibble at his mouth, his jawline, “It’s _definitely_ anniversary sex after breakfast in bed day,” and Chris laughs, and Sebastian thinks again, with all his heart, _forever_.


	7. holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A piratical holiday, and a proposal, of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to do the usual holiday suspects, so...um, Happy Talk Like A Pirate Day. I feel like Chris and Seb would appreciate the ridiculousness of it.

“Hey, Seb,” Chris says.

Sebastian, lazily settled against Chris’s chest and halfway through reading a script for a potential upcoming Shakespeare adaptation, looks up and says, “For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?”

Chris laughs, and retorts with, “I do love nothing in the world so well as you,” because Chris knows _Much Ado About Nothing_ decently well, too. “Know what day it is?”

“Saturday?”

“Yeah, but also International Talk Like A Pirate Day. Scott just sent me like ten terrible pirate jokes. What does a pirate use his cellphone for?”

“Oh my god,” Sebastian says.

“Booty calls.”

“No.”

“Come on, that was awesome. All of these…arrrr.”

“I’ll divorce you,” Sebastian threatens, not seriously because he’s extremely comfortable right here in morning sunshine on the pillowy sofa with Chris at his back and Dodger draped over their feet.

“You _like_ terrible puns,” Chris says, “I know you do,” and then, “wait, we’re not even married!”

“Exactly,” Sebastian retorts, with emphasis, and goes back to squabbling Shakespearean lovers.

“You’re thinking about us being married.” Chris points a finger at him. “You _love_ me. And the terrible puns.”

“If you say anything about a Jolly Roger,” Sebastian says, “we’re not having sex for like a week.”

“Can I ask if you’re prepared to be boarded?”

Sebastian rolls his eyes, sits up, and kisses the love of his life, mostly because that’s always a good distraction. It works like a charm; Chris dives into kissing him and being kissed with every drop of enthusiasm that makes up that huge rainbow-hued exuberant heart.

Kind of unfortunately, Sebastian’s head also briefly pictures Chris in a pirate’s hat. With a parrot.

He resolutely ignores that image, and climbs into Chris’s lap, instead.

Around lunchtime, Chris asks what he feels like as far as food. Sebastian opens his mouth, and then Chris says, “If we were pirates we could get _barr_ -beque,” and Sebastian throws a couch-pillow at him.

Chris apologizes for that one, though he’s laughing. Sebastian sighs.

They get pizza, in the end.

“Hey, Seb,” Chris says later, as they’re turning toward home, out with Dodger in the afternoon breeze, wandering around under trees like ruffled green dancers beneath a big blue sky.

“Don’t you dare,” Sebastian says, hand held securely in Chris’s.

“Why couldn’t the pirates play cards?”

“Because the captain was standing on the deck,” Sebastian says.

Chris’s whole face lights up. “You know that one?”

Sebastian narrows eyes at him. “It was the logical answer!”

“Why’re you anti-pirate?”

“I’m actually not,” Sebastian says. “I’m kind of pro-pirate. Plundering, specifically. Getting, um, pillaged behind that tree.”

“I love your ideas,” Chris agrees, and pushes him up against a friendly tree trunk and kisses him and gets hands all over him, pinning his wrists to tree-bark, sneaking under his shirt, pushing between Sebastian’s thighs, with Chris’s body large and hot and hard and adoring and pressed up against him. They make out in the woods until they’re both breathless and giddy and Sebastian’s about one caress away from coming in his pants, laughing, clinging to Chris, a leaf in his hair and mud on his boots, loving everything about his life.

Chris kind of gives up on the talk-like-a-pirate day jokes, after that. Possibly this is because Sebastian’s distractions via sex have worked, or possibly not; either way, Chris seems apologetic about it, and even makes dinner, one of his mom’s cozy classic pasta recipes. He also opens a new bottle of decently expensive red wine Sebastian hadn’t known they had, and grabs the space-themed wineglass, the one etched with tiny stars.

“I don’t mind your terrible pirate puns,” Sebastian says. Chris prefers beer, he knows.

“Yeah, I know. I don’t know.” Chris shrugs. “Just felt like being nice to you.”

“Why pirate day or whatever it is, again?”

Chris shrugs again. “Just kinda fun? Random?”

Sebastian considers Chris’s face, and the wineglass, and his own love. And then looks down at his toes, and tells Chris, “I’m wearing the wrong socks, then.”

“Huh?”

“Y’know, for the whole pirate thing. They should be, what…arrr-gyle?”

“Oh my god,” Chris says, “I love you, I fucking love you, Seb.”

“I might need more wine,” Sebastian says. “Especially if it’s from the…sand bar.” It’s the actual worst joke he’s ever made.

Chris starts laughing so hard he has to grab the counter, and also Sebastian’s shoulder.

Sebastian grins. Even his socks feel smug.

They’re too full after pasta to do much about pillaging, so they flop down on the sofa and watch a documentary about Mars for a while. Chris gets a fire going, and the wind purrs outside, and Dodger’s snoring in his bed, and it’s so domestic and so perfect that Sebastian’s eyes get a little prickly and his heart feels a little shaky. Sometimes he still can’t believe it: being here, being part of Chris’s life. Himself, Sebastian Stan. Loved so deeply and so well.

Because he loves Chris so damn much, he leans over to bite Chris’s shoulder. Chris grins and pets his hair, and even tugs slightly, because they both know how that dominance goes right to Sebastian’s head and stomach and happy cock; it does now, too, as usual.

“You want me to do something about that,” Chris beckons, “maybe take care of you a little, if you’re needing some attention, Seb?” and his voice turns all low and rumbly and commanding, and fuck yeah, but:

“One sec,” Sebastian announces, and hops up, and runs to their bedroom. He’s got a plan.

He doesn’t have a whole lot that he can work with as far as costumes, pirates not having been a feature of most of his random daydreams, but he’s come up with a few ideas. A loose open white shirt, skinny black pants, a scarf tied around his waist. Some eyeliner. Some of his older jewelry, chunky extravagant rings and necklaces. He grins at himself in the mirror: some sort of haphazard pirate-steampunk-twink grins right back.

He runs back out to the living room, where Chris is sitting up and being kind of puzzled, though that expression shifts the second Sebastian pops back in. Chris groans, “You’re just doing this to fuck with me, now, aren’t you…”

“I was kind of hoping you’d be doing the fucking,” Sebastian says helpfully. “You know. On _board_ with that. You can, um, come bury your…treasure…right here.”

“Jesus,” Chris mutters, but he’s shaking his head, smiling, trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay, point made. Got it. Aye, captain. Or something.”

“You’re right,” Sebastian says. “This _is_ fun. Come claim my booty. Your booty. However that works. I’m all yours anyway.” He is. Body, heart, soul: everything he’s got, everything he is. He’s Chris’s.

“I love you.” Chris gets up and comes over, hands settling on Sebastian’s shoulders, drawing him in close. “Where’d you find the scarf?”

“It’s an old one. I thought maybe you could tie me up with it. Bend me over the bed—the railing, the captain’s bunk, whatever—and have your way with me.”

“Are you the pirate, or am I?”

“Maybe I’m your captive,” Sebastian considers. “You know, the dashing daring pirate adventurer that you keep chasing, good upright naval officer that you are, and you’ve finally caught me.”

“And I’m about to do everything I can think of to you,” Chris jumps in. “Make you beg for mercy. Make you bend over for me, and spread those pretty legs. Make you take my cock, and like it.” His hand lifts Sebastian’s chin, fingers biting down: not too hard, and he’s grinning, eyes made of wicked loving conspiratorial blue. “That what you had in mind?”

“Totally,” Sebastian says. “I mean, aye. Yarr. Yo, ho, ho, and rum, and all that. I think I like your holiday. Um. Chris?”

“Yeah?” Chris’s thumb strokes his cheek, too gently for an angry naval officer. “Somethin’ you need, before I haul you off to my cabin?”

“What I said earlier,” Sebastian says, “about being married to you…about us getting married…I mean, this isn’t me asking, it’ll be way more perfect whenever that happens, don’t worry, but…I just wanted to say…yeah. I do think about that. I kind of think about that a lot. I want all the weird random holidays with you. Forever.”

Chris’s smile’s so wide and bright that it fills up the world, every fantasy and every holiday all rolled into one expression. His hand’s still cupping Sebastian’s face; the other comes to rest on Sebastian’s hip, over the scarf, with something like reverence. He says, “Guess what, Seb.”

“Something about pirates and being a good…mate?”

“Well, yeah, obviously that. _My_ mate.” Chris leans in to kiss him; Sebastian’s entire body thrills to the claiming. “But also…we’ve been pretty much thinking the same things, about that. If you were wondering. I want all the weird random holidays and terrible puns and fucking perfect pirate role-play, forever, with you.”


End file.
